I hope my title has resonated with some of you – yes, it is a reference to John Lennon’s 1969 anthem “Give Peace a Chance”. The Beatles’ frontman, along with other prominent musicians of the time, spoke to a certain chord of uneasiness towards American policy in Vietnam. I have many historical interests that span over the course of the twentieth-century America, especially the crusades that tackled the social and political landscape of the 1960s and 1970s. Out of my interests in the Vietnam War and my upbringing as an activist, I plan to pursue a research project surrounding the anti-war climate on the homefront in the 1960s and 1970s. I want to take a special look at student activism at Chicago Catholic colleges and universities, including Loyola University and its affiliated Mundelein College, DePaul University, Rosary College (present-day Dominican University), and St. Xavier University. The social justice tradition of these Catholic institutions of higher learning certainly evoked a call to action in the wake of the Vietnam War.

President Lyndon B. Johnson’s entrance into the war in 1965 initially received wide public support in the effort to suppress communism. However, the late 1960s saw a correlation between the unprecedented number of American troops deployed in Vietnam and the major losses of life on both sides of the conflict, triggering anti-war sentiment on the homefront. Student groups, like Students for a Democratic Society (SDS), emerged out of the New Left movement in response to the formidable loss of life and human right violations occurring in Indochina. Inspired by activity at the University of Michigan, universities and colleges in Chicago hosted teach-ins and other events to engage the community in an open dialogue on the violent upheaval occurring in Vietnam.

Students gather outside of Piper Hall at Mundelein College in May, 1970 for an anti-war demonstration.

The Skyscraper, Mundelein College’s student newspaper, thoroughly reported anti-war activity on its campus, including this sit-in in 1967.

This is where my project comes into play. While I value the critical attributes of SDS, I am also curious about any other student organizations that surfaced out of the anti-war movement within the Chicago sphere of Catholic colleges and universities. I also want to explore the administration’s response to the rising outcry of this anti-war sentiment on their campus. Because this project will be focused on a certain region of the United States, I am looking forward to discovering any communication between these specific schools. Because of my close relationship with Loyola University and Mundelein College, I have a more well-rounded idea of the activism that occurred there in the late 1960s and early 1970s. However, I am excited to learn more about Rosary College (present-day Dominican University), St. Xavier University, and DePaul University’s activist presence in Chicago during the Vietnam War. I plan to utilize archival and library materials from each of these institutions to sew together a story of solidarity against the aching war in Vietnam.

My first semester in the Ramonat Seminar has already proved to be a rewarding experience. In September I made a goal to explore the tools of the historian, and have seemingly done so through various projects, including an Omeka exhibit. I want to contribute to the digital age by creating an online exhibit showcasing the anti-war movement in Catholic Chicago. I am excited to see what the next semester holds as my classmates and I tackle our respective research projects.

I hope you have enjoyed reading about my journey so far.. More to come next semester!

The Ramonat Seminar’s speaker series continued on Wednesday with a visit from Dr. Randal Jelks of the University of Kansas. Dr. Jelks’s intimate yet colorful presentation dismantled his current book project, ‘I Am Free to Be What I Want’. In this fascinating venture he encounters the faith life (mainly Catholic) of four prominent African-American figures in twentieth-century culture: blues singer Ethel Waters, jazz musician Mary Lou Williams, writer and political activist Eldridge Cleaver, and the late Muhammad Ali. Dr. Jelks’s intellect and humor, and frequent referral to the “dead white guys,” added to the ambience of a well-rounded lecture on the coming of faith through personal struggle.

Dr. Randal Jelks

I was extremely fascinated by Mary Lou Williams, one of the University of Kansas professor’s subjects. Known for her . Jazz sensationalist Duke Ellington described Williams as “soul on soul.” Though she had been involved in the industry since the 1920s, her real claim to fame did not arrive until after her conversion to Catholicism in 1956. “St. Martin de Porres,” the first track on her album Mary Lou Williams Presents Black Christ of the Andes, offers the listener a chilling and enlightening perspective on the first black person canonized by the Roman Curia. This album precedes the dawning of liberation theology in the Americas, a movement that emphasizes the liberation from social, political, and economic restraints. Her self-arranged liturgical music evoked feelings of disapproval and uncertainty from clergyman, both at home and abroad at the Vatican. After the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. in 1968, Williams wrote music for a mass for peace, and planned to perform it during her visit to the Vatican; however, she was denied this request due to the use of bongo drums in her music. Though she received appraisal from clergyman and the laity, her music could not be officially the setting for a mass’s liturgy. In this case, Williams was invited to lead a sixty-voice choir in a special mass dedicated to her music at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City on February 18, 1975. Her work inspired the choreographer Alvin Ailey to create a performance to her liturgical music, and dubbed it Mary Lou’s Mass.

Portrait of Mary Lou Williams (L); the jazz pianist leading her ‘Mary Lou’s Mass’ at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City in 1975 (R).

Dr. Jelks’s lecture holds a special place for me, especially in terms of my cultural interests and personal life. I really don’t find modern music appealing – besides Adele of course. But I have always been fascinated by the works of Billie Holiday, Nina Simone, and their contemporaries. Their dark and powerful voices along with their cinematic-like sound reminds me of Williams’s liturgical music. I have already found a strong spiritual connection to some of the pieces written by Williams, and I would not be opposed to a jazz band taking over the Madonna della Strada Chapel from time to time. Loyola could certainly use a change of pace! My local parish back home is predominately African-American, and each Sunday mass is brought to life by the seemingly powerful gospel choir. I find similarities between the jazz of Mary Lou Williams and my parish’s choir, each focusing on the struggles of the marginalized while finding ways to be uplifted. Jazz music emerged out of the African-Americans’ sidelined situation in twentieth-century American culture. They developed a new breed of music in the 1920s that eventually caught on to the mainstream, but pushed the boundaries of the artist and the listener. Mary Lou Williams specially endeavored to bring about a new way of participating in mass in the old, much like Dorothy Day’s philosophy of developing a new society within the stringent borders of her world.

Wow – I can’t believe it’s been over two weeks since my last blog post! As you can imagine, a lot has happened in the Ramonat Seminar during my brief hiatus. We embarked on an unforgettable journey to northern Missouri to visit and participate in a Catholic Worker farm, and we listened to a colorful story about American Jesuits by our first guest speaker, Dr. John T. McGreevy of the University of Notre Dame. I am excited to share with you all my experiences below!

My classmates and I, and our instructors, journeyed to rural La Plata, Missouri during the first weekend of October to pay a visit to a special farm in the vast network of the Catholic Worker movement. White Rose Catholic Worker Farm, managed by John Bambrick and his wife Regina, developed out of a house of hospitality in West Rogers Park by the same name. A few years ago John and Regina felt a certain vocation to the farmland in Missouri in pursuit of a simpler lifestyle and to escape the modern luxuries (i.e., cell phones and plumbing). They also envisioned, and still do, a society of communal and sustainable living, by which John and Regina promote through social activism, interpretation of Biblical scripture and theology, and invitations to women and men of all ages to experience the farm.

My professors were serious about the lack of electricity. When we first arrived on Friday night, my peers and I heavily relied on head lamps, flashlights, and our senses during our brief strolls. And to mimic the Bambricks’ lifestyle, we turned off our phones to be in connection with one another and with the land. I should preface this reflection by saying that this weekend was a lot of firsts for me. Many of my friends and family members will tell you that I am not one to indulge myself in any outdoor activities, or really anything nature-related. I slept in a tent for the very first time. I also willingly participated in farm chores, specifically: raking up hay to be used as an odor control for the Bambricks’ compost; I cannot thank my co-raker, Emily, enough for her support and hilarity during this episode. I even branched out of my sleeping habits and napped on a bale of hay. As a sustainable community, Regina cooked our meals – with assistance from some of my peers – using ingredients from the crops grown at White Rose. Any leftover food was either stored for future meals or composted. We mainly ate vegetarian meals, and probably the healthiest meals I will ever eat. Our two nights were laden with coyote howls, informal discussion by candlelight, and the occasional human scream at the sight of a daddy-long-leg.

Though I was hesitant at first about embarking on this trip to Missouri, I tried to keep an open mind throughout the weekend. I participated on an Alternative Break Immersion during my freshman year, and witnessed and served the poor in Rutledge, Tennessee. I did not expect the same service aspect or experiences to occur at the White Rose Catholic Worker. I understood that the mission of this place was to fulfill that agrarian and egalitarian vision of Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin. My past experience on that service trip to Tennessee prepared me to comply with the Bambricks’ principled lifestyle. While I am not physically-attuned nor am I nature-oriented, I felt a duty to participate in farm chores for the exchange of shelter and food; John referred to this trade as a gift economy. I feel that this experience has brought my peers and I to a whole new level of understanding and respect for each other. Between our travel time and work on the farm, I was able to learn more about my peers’ motives for taking this course and their personal identities. I am excited to see what the future holds for my peers and I as we continue to grow in the Ramonat Seminar.

Emily and I raking up hay to be used for the compost (top); My peers, Professor Nickerson, and I pose in front the White Rose Catholic Worker workshop (bottom).

The Catholic Worker goals of the 1930s and the goals of today’s movement don’t seem to be far-fetched from each other. Peter Maurin envisioned agronomical universities, or farming communes, as an affiliate to the houses of hospitality in urban settings. Dorothy Day and Maurin’s idealism of building a new society within the current one continues to inspire the Catholic Worker movement, which was absolutely identifiable in the Bambricks’ philosophy. John and Regina, both highly educated, seek to convey the Catholic Worker ideology on their farm in La Plata, Missouri. Though fairly new, their farm has acted as a place of shelter for those in need and has hosted round-table discussions to address some of the world’s contentious issues, such as climate change. The Bambricks were clear in their convictions for creating a healthier world, especially for their young daughter: denouncing luxuries (i.e., cell phones) that I view as necessities, eating solely organic food, and advocating for justice and peace.

Another great shot of me doing manual labor.

(Courtesy of Amelia Serafine)

Our first guest speaker, Dr. John T. McGreevy, unfolded the Jesuits’ significant role in globalizing Roman Catholicism in the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries. He referred to his new book, American Jesuits and the World: How an Embattled Religious Order Made Modern Catholicism Global, during his lecture to focus on the effects of American Jesuits in the Philippines after the Spanish-American War of 1898. Upon reading McGreevy’s book and listening to him speak, it became more apparent that the Society of Jesus, the order of priests responsible for the onset of Loyola University Chicago, were unpopular figures in the Roman Catholic Church. However, this did not come to much surprise for me. As I understand, the Jesuits have a seemingly more progressive doctrine than the traditional dogma of the Church. Though their motto of “women and men for others” seems to be a mighty Christian action, the Church’s commanders as well as some other historical figures (i.e., Thomas Jefferson) felt undermined. The Jesuits’ evangelical mission in the Philippines succeeded in producing one of the most Catholic nations in the world. Their effort to bring about the English language and American customs not only aided in the expansion of Roman Catholicism but also welcomed the prospects of trade and exchange of ideas to a former Spanish protectorate.

Dr. John T. McGreevy’s recently published book, ‘American Jesuits’.

Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin’s movement sought to create a sustainable world within the old, and to create a crusade on behalf of the marginalized. The Jesuits had similar goals in mind on their globalizing effort. This order of priests believed that an evangelized world might be more ethically-inclined to provide a safe haven for those at the edge of society, and the inclusivity of different ideologies. I find this still to be true today, especially as a student at a Jesuit institution of higher learning. Each of my courses, both past and present, have explored social justice in a respective discipline that I believe Day, Maurin, and even St. Ignatius of Loyola might find desirable. The Catholic Worker movement and the Society of Jesus have intersecting values that seem to find a solution for the betterment of our world.

Thanks for reading!

Peace,

Matt

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For more pictures from out trip to White Rose Catholic Worker, click here!

As I continue my journey in the Ramonat Seminar I become more aware of the essential tools and ideologies in a historian’s work. Space and place, two intertwining concepts, provide the historian with an opportunity to explore the past outside the boundaries of academic environments, such as a course on the Vietnam War or a seemingly polished biography of an English monarch. Whether through an imaginative experience or a physical trip to a historical setting, the ideas of space and place maintain the historian’s aptitude for thinking critically and ability to encapsulate the world’s history.

For class we read Chapter 1 of Dr. Dominic Pacyga’s Slaughterhouse, an examination of Chicago’s industrious world of meatpacking and butchering in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The Back of the Yards or “the yards,” as they were referred to by locals, employed 40,000 workers and slaughtered and sold more than a billion livestock in its century-long history. Though putrid in smell and visually gory, the Stockyards attracted thousands of tourists, and some locals, to showcase their innovative technology in slaughtering and meatpacking. It was a Disneyland of sorts. My class and I had the privilege to visit and tour the Stockyards in West Chicago with Dr. Pacyga. In our three hour tour of “the yards” and the surrounding neighborhood, Dr. Pacyga described stories of industrialism, social activism, and racial-ethnic tensions. His detailed narrative provided the groundwork for a visual history of what was once a bustling place of industry and tourism; I am still having trouble wrapping my head around the tourist appeal of a slaughterhouse.

Remnants of Chicago’s meatpacking industrial complex: the entrance to the Stockyards on Exchange Avenue, designed by Daniel Burnham ca. 1875 (L), and the railroad used for transporting livestock and other goods throughout the area (R).

So you may be thinking: what does this have at all to do with Dorothy Day? Well, the co-founder of The Catholic Worker lived in Chicago during her teenage years. Upton Sinclair’s inventive, yet near realistic, tale of suffering and class warfare in The Jungle inspired a young Dorothy to explore the stockyards with her younger brother. She entered into Sinclair’s world of economic hardships and nauseating smells, creating a deep desire to understand those affected not only by the meatpacking industry but those who are faced with inconsolable afflictions. In her 1952 memoir The Long Loneliness, Dorothy reflects on her observations of West Chicago’s impoverished landscape: “Though my only experience of the destitute was in books, the very fact that The Jungle was about Chicago where I lived, whose streets I walked, made me feel that from then on my life was to be linked with theirs, their interests were to be mine; I had received a call, a vocation, a direction in my life.”

When I studied abroad in Ireland last semester I would switch to “amateur-historian” mode whenever I found myself in a historical site of interest. I had the privilege of traveling to Rome and Vatican City for part of Holy Week, including Easter. Amidst the slow-moving crowds of tourists I was able to catch a glimpse of the Sistine Chapel, the fifteenth-century worship center known for its Michelangelo frescoes. I can still hear the moderately-dressed Swiss Guard echoing with passionate force, “No photo, no photo!” Having been raised Catholic, the moments spent in the Sistine Chapel were gratifying, both on a spiritual and historical level. Before entering the chapel I was only familiar to its sights from photographs and literature. While standing in the Sistine Chapel (among the hoards of tourists) I was able to visualize and understand the physical challenges the Renaissance painters endured to create a stunning masterpiece of Biblical art. I was also astounded to be in the room where the popes of the last five-hundred years have been elected to lead the world’s Catholics. In Ireland I traveled to Cobh, a port town on the southern coast where millions of migrants left for the United States. The train station and processing facilities are still intact, having been converted to a museum commemorating the mass Irish exodus of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. For many trans-Atlantic passenger lines, Cobh was the last point of departure, including the ill-fated RMS Titanic. My visit to the port town consisted of a walk along the harbor where several Irish immigrants boarded to pursue the American Dream. As the self-proclaimed family historian/genealogist, Cobh provided me with an insight into my own ancestors’ experience of leaving Ireland during a time of anxiety and famine.

Michelangelo’s famed “The Last Judgment” in the Sistine Chapel, Vatican City (L); rebelliously taken while under surveillance by Swiss Guards. A statue of Annie Moore, the first documented Irish immigrant to the United States, in the port town of Cobh, Ireland (R).

The correlation between science and religion has certainly been a contested matter throughout history, and continues today. Many of us are all too familiar with the Scientific Revolution and Galileo Galilei, the seventeenth-century Italian astronomer who defied the Roman Catholic Church in his endorsement of a sun-centered solar system. The Enlightenment of the eighteenth century, an age of reason and new thought, succeeded the period of unprecedented scientific discovery, and swiftly challenged Church doctrine. In the nineteenth century, science continued its advancement in various fields as the Industrial Revolution started to take hold of several metropolitan cities around the world. Specifically, the latter part of the nineteenth century holds a crucial moment in the clash between scientific development and religion.

Charles Darwin, the nineteenth-century English naturalist, conceptualized a theory on human development that furthered complications with the Church: evolution, or Darwinism. His notion on natural selection and its implications caused a commotion in the Church over the spiritual and physical development of the human. The onset of Darwin’s theory sparked outrage within Catholic communities in the United States, and ignited the formation of two ideologically-different factions: the progressives and the conservatives. In R. Scott Appleby’s essay “Exposing Darwin’s ‘Hidden Agenda,'” the former was composed of some bishops and priests, and attempted to open the American Catholic sphere to scientific developments and other doctrinal differences; their forward-thinking movement was sometimes dubbed “Americanism.” The conservatives, however, were spearheaded by several American Catholic prelates who disavowed the idea of human evolution, calling it a mockery of God’s power and creationism. Though the progressives seemed to be out of accordance with Catholic dogma, their movement received praise from Pope Leo XIII (1878-1903) who advocated for a more tolerant approach to science.

Charles Darwin’s Theory of Evolution

The final years of the nineteenth century proved to be a pivotal moment for the Catholic-Darwin relationship. Father John Augustine Zahm, a University of Notre Dame scientist and priest in the Congregation of Holy Cross, sought to find a meaningful correlation between religion and science in the 1890s. Though he believed that Catholic doctrine was the “divine truth,” and outweighed scientific principles, Zahm maintained that he was inconclusive on Darwin’s theory of evolution. He insisted that an evolution based on God’s role in the creation of the human form was a possible ideological answer to the conflict between the Roman Catholic Church and the scientific community. It was unnecessary for the Catholic teaching on creation and the scientific theories of evolution to counter each other, Zahm affirmed. In 1896 the priest-scientist published Evolution and Dogma, his attempt to demonstrate the coexistence of religion and science in historical and contemporary perspectives.

Father John A. Zahm, CSC

During his clashes with Pope Urban VIII and the Holy See, Galileo proposed “the intention of the Holy Ghost is to teach us how to go to heaven, not how the heavens go.” His words are evocative of Catholicism’s relationship with the sciences today. Before entering the Society of Jesus as a novitiate, Pope Francis briefly studied chemistry at a technology institute in Buenos Aires, Argentina. His experience laid the groundwork for his innovative encyclical Laudato si, where he describes the ailing condition of the environment and calls for the fruitful dialogue between religion and science. Pope Francis’s concern for the poor and the marginalized, especially those felt precluded by the Church, translate into his worries for the Earth. His desire to see respectful and constructive relations between religion and science is traced to Father Zahm’s argument for a cohesive bond connecting the two differing ideologies.

My name is Matthew Petersen and I am beginning my third year at Loyola University Chicago. I am majoring in History with a recently declared minor in Religious Studies. Originally from Los Angeles, I came to Loyola to experience the steadfast interdisciplinary Jesuit education and a real winter. Loyola’s core tradition of “women and men for others,” an important facet of social justice, also appealed to me. I grew up in a household where the walls were – and still are – lined with posters of historical figures in the American labor and social movements of the twentieth century, including Cesar Chavez and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. My parents even enlisted my siblings and I to participate in several strikes and marches in support of my father’s work in organizing labor unions for hotel and restaurant workers. Therefore, it was a natural inclination for me to choose an institution of higher learning where the mission of social justice rests upon the will of the community to act for the betterment of the world.

I decided to apply for the Ramonat Seminar out of a desire to learn more about a woman whose name I carry, and to understand the fundamental work of a historian. Before arriving at Loyola I had a limited knowledge on Dorothy Day besides the fact that I was named after her or that she led a socio-political lay movement in the twentieth century.In the fall semester of 2015-16 academic year I enrolled in a course with Professor Nickerson that examined various radicals and reformers in American social history, including Dorothy Day. Through an assigned reading of Paul Elie’s The Life You Live May Be Your Own: An American Pilgrimage I finally grasped a more profound understanding of Dorothy Day’s life and work. I was especially captivated by her pre-conversion years as a journalist for several politically-left publications. However, this left me unsatisfied, wanting to go further in my research. I felt that applying to be a Ramonat Scholar would allow me to do so in an effective matter. I am grateful for the in-class discussions and the upcoming guest lectures, both of which will ignite new ideas and my current comprehension of Dorothy Day and the American Catholic of the twentieth century. As I enter my third year at this Jesuit university I am delving into different career pathways. I am curious about the historian’s strategies in researching material, and to consolidate that information into a well-formulated paper. I believe that the Ramonat Seminar is the perfect opportunity to explore careers in history and to enhance my skills as an undergraduate student, which will especially be highlighted during the independent research component of the course.

Also, you may be wondering about the title of my blog. I decided to construct a title based on some core aspects of my identity: my Roman Catholic faith and my “hereditary” drive for social justice. My first name, Matthew, derives from one of the twelve disciples of Jesus Christ. So while I may not actually be Matthew the Apostle nor did I contribute to the New Testament, I hope this blog will act as my own testament to the work I will encounter throughout the Ramonat Seminar. My second name, Day, originates from my father’s fascination with the co-founder of the Catholic Worker, Dorothy Day. Her fearlessness and perseverance are remarkable of the Catholic-American tradition, principally through her advocacy of the marginalized and her desire to socially improve the world.

Dorothy Day is certainly an icon of twentieth-century Catholic-American history, and still proves to be relevant in contemporary social activism, as commended by Pope Francis in his historic address to the United States Congress nearly a year ago. Her valiant deeds and evocative words are an inspiration to the Loyola University Chicago community. More recently, members of the community came in solidarity with the university’s dining hall workers, who were in negotiations to renew their contract with Aramark. Students For Worker Justice (SWJ), a non-sanctioned university organization, arranged with Unite Here Local 1 to hold several rallies in protest of the dining hall employees’ employer throughout the 2015-16 academic year. Victory ensued on March 31 of this year, and the Aramark employees were guaranteed higher wages, more affordable healthcare, and a 40-hour work week (Loyola Phoenix). The Loyola community and SWJ are exemplary models of Catholic social justice activism. Those in support of the dining hall workers showed companionship and echoed Pope Francis’s call to action on behalf of the oppressed.

Members of the Loyola community and Unite Here Local 1 hold a rally in support of university dining hall workers.

(Courtesy of Loyola Phoenix)

Considered the foundation of Catholic social teaching, Pope Leo XIII’s 1891 encyclical Rerum novarum called for the respect of the worker’s dignity, and outlined the rights of workers (i.e., forming labor unions). I did not realize until arriving at Loyola that Roman Catholicism has a rich history in championing for workers’ rights. I am delighted to see my peers, professors, and other community members living out this simple ideal of justice for others.